• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 08
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The Best is Yet to Come

It’s goodbye. Jewels, glitter
won’t hold me. My mother’s
weary worn suitcase waits,
the one she left on the Orient Express
and found in the left luggage, Paris.

Letter angled against the crystal,
I phone for a taxi,
fingerprint the dust,
sashay barefoot into the starry night,
alone, sober, a pound to my name,
in the clothes I arrived with.

The life you offered me is done;
dream-dust dazzle, hollow.